Death at the Boston Tea Party Page 10

  John shook his head in semi-disbelief. ‘You must have suffered terribly.’

  Coralie smiled sadly. ‘I had done my suffering years before, when my daughter spat at me and called me a whore. That was when I left the house in which she was living. The last time I ever saw her alive she was sitting on her husband’s knee, running her hands over his body and biting him on the neck with her little white teeth.’

  ‘Stop,’ said John. ‘Speak of it no more. Let it just be said that you had the courage to sail to Boston and start a new life here.’

  ‘Yes. My sister Kitty left the stage and retired to a villa in Twickenham given to her by Horace Walpole, who greatly admired her. She wanted me to live with her but I decided against it. So I chose the New World instead.’

  ‘And is she still alive?’

  ‘Very much so. We keep up a lively correspondence. Well, as lively as possible with the time it takes for letters to arrive.’

  John looked wise. ‘I remember her very vividly. Almost as vividly as her sibling.’

  Coralie pulled a face. ‘What was the sibling called?’

  John smiled broadly. ‘I really can’t recollect.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Well, where did you get to?’ asked Suzanne, looking slightly cross but amused at the same time.

  ‘Do not ask, my dear,’ the Apothecary replied. ‘Let us just say that I have been in heaven. But with a straight face I do apologise for being so late. Has the place been packed with ladies of greenish pallor demanding to see an herbalist?’

  ‘At least a dozen hurled abuse at me and asked where you were. One accused you of being a bed faggot.’

  The Apothecary, who was in the finest humour, gave Suzanne a wicked look and tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘You may tease me all you will. Nothing will induce me to be angry. I shall go to my consultation room and await the swarm of complaints.’

  And having said this he delivered Suzanne a playful smack and headed away. But within half an hour of arrival, during which he was alone, luxuriating in the smell of drying herbs, there was a knock at the door and Demelza Conway entered.

  Seeing her like this, in the piercing light thrown by the shop window – for John had converted the Orange Tree’s storeroom into a very workable apothecary’s premises from which he could quite easily dispense his skills and physicks – he noticed the lines concentrated round her eyes and lips and guessed her age to be about fifty. She was as smart as ever but had a strange air about her, almost as if she had greater things on her mind and her illness, whatever it was, was a nuisance more than anything else. He bowed low, acting like the true professional.

  ‘Can I assist you in some way, Madam?’

  She came directly to the point. ‘I have reached that stage in my life when my courses are most irregular. I have not had the reds for some twelve weeks.’

  John looked sympathetic.

  ‘But, on the other hand, I may have been foolish enough to have conceived a child, a situation that is completely abhorrent to me. Can you give me something to bring on a flux?’

  This was indeed a very direct question and one which made the Apothecary pause before answering. Eventually he said, ‘There are several things that provoke the menses. But why do you come to me and not your friend Joseph Warren?’

  She laughed outright. ‘He is a good man, a God-fearing man. He does not believe in the destruction of life.’

  ‘As I do?’

  For the first time, she appeared flustered. ‘I did not say that. I did not mean that. But I ask you, John, as a fellow human being: give me something to bring on my courses.’

  ‘You do not know definitely that you are with child?’

  She laughed without humour. ‘It’s Jake, the wild creature. He cannot leave me alone. You would think we were newlywed. I fear that I may well be pregnant.’

  John’s thoughts, roaming to Coralie, decided there really was no age at which men and women felt too old for love and all its splendid highways and byways. He nodded slowly.

  ‘Come back tomorrow, Lady Conway. I will prepare for you a decoction of the root of Masterwort. That will bring on your courses.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘As certain as I can be of anything.’

  ‘Then I bid you good day.’

  She went out, leaving John to stare at his empty shop and think of all the strange things that had been requested of him since he had first become a Yeoman of the Society of Apothecaries.

  In the next few weeks he had several calls upon his professional help but none quite so bluntly put or as unexpected as the request of Lady Conway. He had prepared the decoction for her, she had paid him and taken it away, and from that day forward had never by look or word mentioned the subject again.

  The rest of his friends he saw quite regularly. Those pretty fellows, Tracey and George, were so delighted with the result of their dance that they organized two more, both of which John attended, escorting Madame Clive, which gave rise to a great deal of local gossip. Rose, who was looking very beautiful these days, announced that she was delighted to be taught by such a famous actress and pretended to be much shocked that her teacher was an old friend of her father’s. The twins devoured their lessons with skill and were soon reading and writing ahead of their classmates. Sir Julian Wychwood appeared to be much interested in a Miss Dolly Hampden, a plain-looking girl but very well connected. Lady Eawiss accepted the proposal of one of her cisibeos and announced that she would be married in the spring of 1774. As for Matthew and his three children, they fell in with a spritely widow and mother of two, Sarah, who Matthew married before anyone could blink an eye, and set up home together in the widow’s house in the North End.

  But it was not all dancing and courtship. There was a feeling in the town: just put a squib and light it in the streets and the whole lot would come tumbling down about one’s ears. There were patriots everywhere, but included amongst those who genuinely thought that it was time that the Colonies sought freedom from British domination was another element. The pure at heart had unwittingly drawn to them the bully boys, spoiling for a fight, brutal and ugly and ready to side with anyone who would satisfy their lust for violence. It was a marriage of thoughtful and clever men who only wanted the English to stop their ridiculous treatment, and of thugs who lusted for social revolution.

  John, much to his consternation, saw notices going up in the streets demanding that all Sons of Liberty should attend a mass meeting to protest at the imminent arrival of tea ships from Britain. The British government had, in their blundering way, passed the Tea Act of 1773. Tea, which up to this point had been imported by the Boston merchants and sold far more cheaply than in England, was in future to be supplied by the East India Company to a monopoly of merchants who would then impose the tax which would be paid direct to London. The citizens of Boston were incensed. Could this just be the start? Would the British government in future tax clothing and shoes, even Madeira wine? What was the future for Boston shopkeepers when the British government chose ‘consignees’ to handle the goods alone? If they had done this for tea, what next?

  In late November the first of the tea ships, the Dartmouth arrived. There was a furious public meeting which John avoided, though he may as well not have bothered to do so. His only customer of the day was a small boy who had been hit over the head by another and wanted his wound dressed, and to have a good sniffle at John’s knee. There was a feeling of unrest that was almost tangible and that evening, when Irish Tom arrived to convert the tea shop back to an inn, he swore that there were gangs of men out on the streets looking for trouble.

  ‘I think there’s going to be some mighty blow-up, John.’

  ‘I’m uneasy as hell. I’ve thought of getting a slave to protect the children.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Someone who will walk them to school and back. General care, you know. The twins are very precious to me.’

  ‘And what about Miss
Rose? Do you think Madame Clive’s school is safe from the mob?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tom. Is anywhere safe? There are a lot of rough souls in Boston alongside all the good and God-fearing.’

  ‘You could be talking about anywhere, Sir. I don’t think there is a town in the entire world that doesn’t have its share of riff-raff.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. But that doesn’t ease my current problem. I must work to provide for my family but can’t be everywhere guarding them at the same time.’

  ‘Go to the slave market tomorrow, Sir. I’ll come with you if you like.’

  ‘Nonsense, Tom. I’m a grown man and can take care of myself.’

  Despite everything, John put a newly bought pistol under his coat as he sauntered down to a place near the Faneuil Hall where sales of kidnapped black people were held. Rumour had reached his ears that the Dartmouth had been ordered to tie up at Griffin’s Wharf, not to unload, and had spent the night under armed guard. He was right in his deep feeling that the mobs were out.

  As always, the sight of the slave market, of so many miserable human beings huddled together, frightened out of their wits, depressed him enormously. Their ship had moored at a wharf near the Faneuil Hall and the occupants had been marched to a nearby square where their sale had begun. Though the practice of selling slaves was regarded as rather degrading by the lofty Puritans of Boston, the owning of them was not. John, as a man of his day, agreed with the latter sentiment.

  The Apothecary ran his eyes over the cringing people in a combination of disgust at their treatment and pity for the poor souls. And then his gaze widened. There was someone he knew amongst the crowd. Standing tall and looking down the length of his finely chiselled nose was Blue Wolf, arms folded across his chest, grouped with a handful of other captured Indians. He was staring at the ground steadfastly, as if he were too good to be part of this wretched auction of human suffering. But some sixth sense must have told him that someone he knew was amongst the onlookers, for suddenly his dark eyes flashed upwards and he and John stared directly at one another. Their extraordinary friendship rekindled in an instant and John knew, as surely as if he had been told, that Blue Wolf had allowed himself to be captured just to come near to his beloved Jane Hawthorne. In the only signal he dared give, John removed his hat and raised one of his expressive eyebrows. Blue Wolf responded with a tiny movement of his head, rapidly looking down then straight back up.

  The requests for him were unusually fierce even though he was given away free. Several people entered the fray, particularly, John noted, several widowed and single ladies, but John threw caution to the winds and a generous tip to the slave master and eventually acquired Blue Wolf, who was handed to him on a chain.

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend you remove that, Mister. This fella’s one big hulk of a brave.’

  ‘I’ll take my chance,’ John answered pleasantly.

  They hurried back through the less-crowded streets and stinking alleyways until they finally reached John’s home. Here the Apothecary removed the fetters, then poured two glasses of rum and gave one to Blue Wolf. The man picked up the glass, sniffed its contents but did not drink it.

  ‘Can’t you drink?’ John asked curiously.

  Blue Wolf shook his head. ‘It will drive me crazy.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. But tell me, my friend, did you come here for Jane Hawthorne?’

  Something resembling humour lit the Indian’s eyes. ‘Why else would I allow myself to be captured? I am the Blue Wolf. The forests are my natural home. I could escape those soldiers in a second.’ Suddenly his face changed and another man peeped out from behind his uncompromising features. ‘But I made the mistake of all men. I fell in love with a white woman.’

  ‘I admire you for subjecting yourself to the ordeal. But let us discuss more practical matters. While you work for me I want you to adopt the dress of the other men in Boston. Dressed as the brave that you are, you will stand out in a crowd. I would rather that you blended in with it.’

  Blue Wolf, whose command of English had improved enormously though it was still pronounced with a French accent, said, ‘I know you require me to help you so what is it that you need of me?’

  John did not give the answer he had practised. Instead, out of his mouth came the following sentence: ‘We are living in difficult times, Blue Wolf. I want you to look after my children. Fight for them as if they were your own if it becomes necessary. My daughter is fairly safe at a boarding school out near the Common so I doubt she is going to get into much trouble. But my sons – you know the twins – live here with me. My friend, can I leave them in your charge? They are at school learning to read and write.’

  A strange light had come into the Indian’s eyes and he said, ‘Then I will go to school with them. I, too, wish to learn to write and read.’

  ‘But the children and the teacher will be terrified. An Indian marching into their lessons might well empty the classroom.’

  ‘I will tell them I come to learn. In peace.’ Blue Wolf had risen to his feet and John thought at that moment he was one of the tallest of his race that he had ever seen. ‘I will serve you well, Mr Rawlings, fear nothing of that. I will guard the twins with my life but you will forgive me if I am free when they do not require me.’

  ‘In your spare time you can go wherever you want. But I warn you, my friend, Boston is in a state of seething unrest and there are many who don’t like the fact that Indian braves are being given away at the slave market.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they would rather see you dead.’

  Two more ships, the Beaver and the Eleanor, came in and were moored with the Dartmouth at Griffin’s Wharf. On board they had three hundred and forty-two chests of tea, valued at eighteen thousand pounds. Meanwhile, the meetings of the masses, the thinkers and the tradesmen had been moved to the Old South Meeting House, the Faneuil Hall being too small to admit their great and growing number. They were not town meetings – they had grown too wild and undisciplined for that. These were the massed discontents with the way things were, and they called themselves The Body.

  The sixteenth of December came, the sky above grey with foreboding and raindrops speckling the roads. John and Suzanne, listening to the sound of the crowd packing the streets outside the meeting house, unable to get in, decided to close the Orange Tree. Irish Tom swung in through their doors at lunchtime, his face very anxious.

  ‘You’re doing the right thing, Sir. I’ve a feeling that tonight is going to get as rough as blades.’

  Then, to the surprise of John, the mighty man put his arm round little Suzanne, swung her off her feet and said, ‘Don’t worry, me darling. Irish Tom will protect you.’ That was a very public display of affection and John was rather astonished, wondering whether, despite the age gap, the pair might make a regular couple.

  Early in the afternoon he mounted the old nag he had bought, as comfortable and as happy just to jog along as its owner, and rode to Coralie’s house. She was teaching but he had a long conversation with Abraham, her black slave, who promised to lock up well at night and protect the females within. Not sure, John left some money with him and asked him to call for reinforcements if necessary. This done, he left Coralie a love note and trotted home.

  By the time he got back the December sun was setting and the streets were in a ferment of unrest. So packed, indeed, that John had to dismount and lead Ruby by her bridle. He asked a passing stranger what exactly was happening.

  ‘It’s about the tea ships, Mister. They’ve sent to Governor Hutchinson for permission to turn ’em back to England with their cargoes. We’re not going to touch ’em with this tea tax and all.’

  John tried to take a few steps in the direction of his home but the crowd would not shift. His horse started to panic and he whispered in her ear, ‘Go on, Ruby, make your way back, there’s a good girl.’ She started to push her way out and eventually made some sort of path for herself. John tried to follow but the p
ress of people closed in. And then it happened. There was a roar from the Old South, followed by war whoops, just as if a pack of Indians was in there. The crowd within burst upon the streets exactly as if they had been shot from a gun. Above the hubbub one voice could be heard, loud and clear. It was John Hancock and he was calling out, ‘Let every man do what is right in his own eyes!’

  John felt himself being propelled forward by the mob, his feet literally not touching the ground. He was certain at that moment that if he were to drop down he would be trodden to death. And he knew, deep in his heart, that this was the start of a revolution, a revolution that would light the spark that would set the Colonies free of the yoke of England for ever.

  FOURTEEN

  Eventually the crowd thinned but not in a friendly way. Groups of people whom John recognized as journeymen, apprentices and some people he had never seen before slid off into the Green Dragon and various other hidey-holes. At last a way opened up to take him clear to the Orange Tree. Here the Apothecary found several of his friends, all agog to know the latest. Tracey and George were there, very excited and wondering if they could do anything to help the British cause. Matthew was present with his strange little wife and various children with whom Jasper and James were happy to play. Sir Julian Wychwood, absolutely abrim with pleasure, came in and shouted, ‘I feel just like going out and fighting someone.’

  ‘If I were you,’ John answered, ‘I would keep your eyes down and your sword sheathed.’

  Julian took this the wrong way and laughed incessantly.

  ‘And you can do that constantly as far as I’m concerned. We don’t want you running into any more trouble. You’re worse to look after than a baby.’

  ‘Oh, John, I think you’re getting old. You sound like an ancient crabby maid, the way you go on. Besides, I am a child with most interesting information. Would you like to hear it?’